Blood Work Page 10

  'You reckon he was heading for the Tube?'

  'He lives or works near here. And given the timing it is more likely he was on his way to work somewhere out of the locality.'

  'So you think he lives somewhere near the heath?'

  'Sexual predators like to operate within a comfort zone. Somewhere they know well. So if something happens they know where to run to.'

  'And the murdered girl. Does she live locally, do you think?'

  The desk sergeant called out as they headed to the front entrance. 'Good to see you back, Jack.'

  'Cheers, Dave.' He opened the front door for Sally. 'I don't know about the girl. It depends if it was an opportunistic or planned killing. Time of death will help.'

  'Not going to be wandering on the heath in the dead of night you mean.'

  Delaney nodded as they walked over to Sally's car. 'It's unlikely.'

  'Mind you, it was a full moon last night.'

  'Meaning?'

  Sally fished out her car keys and opened the driver's door to her car. 'Well, it brings out the crazies. And her being a goth. Maybe there's a connection. The mystic power of the moon and all that.'

  Delaney got into the car next to her and stretched his legs forward. 'The moon might play a part in paganism. Witchcraft, Wicca, that kind of thing. Not sure it applies to goths.'

  'No. But the belt buckle. I've been thinking about it.'

  'What about it?'

  'Looking at the photos more closely both sides had a representation of the Green Man. Big pagan symbol.'

  Delaney nodded thoughtfully. 'Maybe, and there may have been a full moon last night, but you'd never have been able to see it. Not with all that cloud cover and rain.'

  'I suppose not. So, it looks like the body was dumped there. She could have come from anywhere.'

  '"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania."'

  Sally looked across at him, frowning as she fired up the engine. 'Sir?'

  'What? You surprised I know a little Shakespeare? They do have schools in Ireland, you know.'

  'Yeah, I do know that. Put your seat belt on.'

  Delaney sighed and pulled the strap across. 'And it's cockney rhyming slang.'

  'What is?'

  'John Thomas. So the expression came first.'

  'Oh.' Sally smiled. 'So what does it rhyme with?'

  Delaney considered for a moment, then sighed and flapped his hand. 'Just drive the car, Constable.'

  'On average two and a half million people use the tube system every day and I'm guessing something like bloody plenty of them use South Hampstead station,' Delaney said as he stood up from the computer, rubbed his sore eyes and yawned.

  Sally paused the CCTV footage and looked up at him, amusement quirking the corners of her mouth. 'Must have been some night.'

  Delaney yawned again, putting his hand in front of his mouth. 'You have no idea.'

  Sally gestured at the computer screen. 'We're up to twelve o'clock.'

  Delaney nodded and stretched his eyes. 'Let's get these photos in front of the nurse, see if she recognises any of them.'

  Sally collected three photos that had been printed out of some possible men that matched the description of the flasher they had been given by Valerie Manners and stood up.

  Kate Walker was sitting at her computer typing up her notes for the post-mortem on the mystery woman. She pushed the print icon and some moments later picked up a ten by eight, black-and-white close-up of the woman's neck. Someone had slashed her hard enough to slice the flesh clear to the bone. What kind of anger could have fuelled such brutality? Even if the attack was sexually motivated it still came down to anger. Impotent rage, maybe, as it was clear the woman had not been sexually assaulted. No evidence of it at least. The irony of the thought was not lost on her and she shivered again, thinking about the possibility that it could have been her dead body being examined by one of her colleagues. How close a tightrope to death we walk in life, she thought. How fragile the human body is. How soft and defenceless against true purpose, true will to hurt. And yet we dance on the tightrope blindfolded, and laugh while we do it. Only Kate didn't feel like laughing today. She wasn't sure she ever would again. The telephone rang suddenly, shrilly. She started, her heart thumping in her chest, and snatched the phone up, taking a moment or two to steady her shattered nerves before answering. 'Kate Walker.'

  'Kate, it's Caroline Akunin.'

  Kate took in a deep breath. 'Go on.'

  'I haven't got the blood work back . . .' She paused.

  'But?' asked Kate.

  'But, I ran a check on Paul Archer.'

  'And?'

  'He's out on police bail at the moment, Kate. Pending trial. He's already been charged with rape.'

  Kate was puzzled for a moment. 'What do you mean?'

  'His estranged wife. She's charged him with rape. The court case is coming up this week. He's a rapist, Kate.'

  Kate nodded, taking it in, she couldn't speak for a moment. 'I'm coming in to White City now for a briefing, I'll come and see you while I'm there.'

  She hung up the phone and collected the photographs and her printed out notes. She stood up and winced, holding a hand to her stomach and had to fight the urge to throw up again.

  Valerie Manners looked impatiently at her watch and scowled at Danny Vine, the uniformed constable who was stood by the door of the interview room at the front part of White City police station. It was a featureless, plain room, with a rectangular table, six plastic chairs and a couple of windows looking out to the car park. Not a particularly pleasant place to spend any length of time. She looked at her watch again. 'How much longer are they going to be?' she snapped.

  The newly qualified constable shrugged. 'They're on their way. Hard to tell.'

  'Well, it's not good enough. I'm due back on shift in a few hours and I've hardly had time to catch forty winks, let alone have a proper sleep.'

  'You could always call in. You have had a traumatic day.'

  The nurse shook her head angrily. 'You see, that's what's wrong with this generation. The slightest thing and people can just call in. Where would we be if the RAF had just called in in 1940?'

  'I don't know, ma'am.'

  'Well, I tell you where we'd be. We'd be right here,' she said, realising that wasn't quite what she meant. 'Only we wouldn't be speaking English, would we? We'd be speaking German.'

  'I've got an A level in German.'

  Valerie glared at him. 'Is that supposed to be funny?'

  'No. I was just saying.'

  'And that's another wrong. People are always "just saying". In my day, young man, people did. They didn't say. They got on with it. They got the job done.'

  Danny Vine sighed inwardly with relief as the handle on the door turned and DI Jack Delaney and DC Sally Cartwright came into the room.

  'Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms Manners.'

  Valerie smiled sweetly at Delaney. 'That's quite all right, Detective Inspector. As I was just explaining to the young officer . . .' she gestured unimpressed at Danny Vine, 'I am only too happy to do my civic duty. Only too happy.'

  'We're very grateful.'

  The nurse held her hand up. 'No gratitude necessary. I am from a generation that steps up to the line when the call comes.'

  Delaney pulled out a chair and sat opposite her. He opened a folder and put the photographs of the men they had pulled from the security footage from South Hampstead Tube station.

  'I'd like you to look at these photos, Ms Manners. See if you recognise any of the men as the gentleman you encountered this morning.'

  'The pervert, you mean. He was certainly no gentleman.'

  She pulled out a pair of glasses from her handbag and perched them on the end of her nose as she looked at the photographs Delaney had handed her across the table. She studied each one for a long time before looking up and taking her glasses off. 'They all look possible.'

  'But you can't be sure.'

  The nurse shrugged apologetically. 'Well, i
f I'm honest my eyes weren't exactly drawn to his face, if you see what I mean.'

  Sally Cartwright stepped forward. 'Could you look again, Ms Manners?'

  Valerie Manners picked up the photos and looked at them again, then shook her head and handed the photos back to Sally. 'Sorry, but any one of them could be him. Is it possible to see photos of the area of exposure, as it were?'

  Sally blinked, not quite sure she had heard correctly. 'I beg your pardon?'

  'I am a nurse after all. And it might help.'

  Danny Vine couldn't hold back a short laugh and Delaney glared at him. 'Wait outside, Constable.'

  'Sir.' Danny hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Delaney turned back to Valerie Manners. 'I'm sorry, ma'am. But that won't be possible. It would be a procedural irregularity, I'm afraid.'

  'It's just the injury. Very unlikely two people would have the same.'

  Delaney took the photos off Sally and flicked through them quickly. 'What do you mean, the injury?'

  'To his penis. Quite extensive scarring, and some deformation I would say.'

  'What?' Delaney couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  'It was quite noticeable.' She looked up at Delaney's surprised expression. 'I'm sorry. Didn't I mention that?'

  'No, ma'am. You didn't.'

  'Do you think it might be important?'

  DI Jimmy Skinner was well aware that the chatter beneath him had stopped as soon as the clang of his hard leather shoes on the metal walkway echoed around the large building. He looked over the railing, down at the many prisoners who were scattered about the recreation area, their faces turned up to his momentarily and then back to what they had been doing. Noise filled the building again. The sound of caged men resigned to their fate. The truth was Jimmy Skinner felt a lot of empathy for them. They were all gamblers in the main, much like him. Jimmy recognised that, just like he had been in the past many, many times, these men had been fucked on the river. Deliverance they called it. The odds had been in his favour, it was science after all, but the cards had turned up and defied the odds and he had taken a bad beat. He himself had taken a lot of bad beats over the years, just like the men below. Someone had lost their nerve or a car had failed to start, or a family that should have been on holiday had cancelled at the last minute and were at home when they shouldn't have been. Bad beats all. Or the baddest beat of the lot: being born in the wrong part of London in the wrong kind of family. The kind of family that had no hope outside of crime. No hope because the system had fucked them on the river before they'd even been born, and now the only way out was by the gun or knife, or with a flame and a spike and a packet of temporary oblivion to trade. So he felt a kind of sympathy for them. Not for the rapists, mind, or the child abusers or the soulless killers. For them he'd have a rope waiting, see how the cards fell on the ultimate gamble of all.

  The prison guard coughed and Jimmy Skinner turned back to him and carried on walking towards the open cell doors and put the men below out of his mind. One thing you learned playing poker was that you put the past behind you and moved on to your next game. Chasing losses was a sure way to destruction and Jimmy Skinner wasn't that kind of gambler. He didn't play to lose, he played to stay even, so he could play again.

  The officer, a wide-set man in his forties with steel-grey hair and eyes as bereft of humour as a warehouse guard dog, stood by the open door of one of the cells and jerked with his thumb to show Jimmy the man inside.

  Neil Riley was a scrawny, long-haired man in his early thirties, with skin the colour of church candles and tattoos covering both his arms. Tattoos that hadn't been modelled on any works of the great Renaissance artists as far as Jimmy Skinner could see. He was sat on his bed rolling a cigarette and looked up dispassionately as the policeman entered the cell.

  Jimmy fished a new packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and threw it on the bed besides him. The man looked at it, a sneer quirking the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. 'You better do better than fucking that.'

  Jimmy nodded then picked up the packet of cigarettes from the bed, put them in his pocket and slapped the man back-handed, hard across his face.

  'The fuck you think you're doing? I got rights, you know.'

  A snort of laugher came from the guard outside and Jimmy clicked his fingers to get the man's attention. 'First rule. You don't swear in my presence.'

  'Fuck that.'

  Jimmy hit him hard again, the other side of his face this time, open-palmed.

  'Jesus Christ!'

  Skinner hit him back-handed again. 'Or blaspheme.'

  Neil Riley scrambled up on the bed, putting his back to the wall and held his hand up at Skinner. 'All right, you made your f—' He caught himself. 'You made your point.'

  Skinner nodded. 'Good.'

  'And I don't know what you want to see me for. I don't know anything about anything.'

  'You know Kevin Norrell, don't you?'

  'I knew him.'

  Skinner leaned in pointedly. 'He isn't dead yet, Riley.'

  The sallow-faced man looked surprised. 'I thought—'

  'What did you think?'

  'I heard he was dead, that's all.'

  'And where did you hear that from?'

  Riley shrugged. 'Word gets round. What do you think, this place is a Carmelite nunnery? You think nobody talks?'

  Skinner was a little surprised, and ignoring his own rules, said, 'What do you know about the fucking Carmelites?'

  'I went to a convent primary school.'

  'I thought that was just for girls?'

  'No. Some are mixed up to a certain age.'

  Skinner caught himself. 'Can we get back to the fucking point here?'

  'I was just saying.'

  'Never mind all that bollocks, just tell me who told you Norrell was dead.'

  'I don't know, what does it matter who told me?'

  'Someone took five inches of sharpened steel and tried to make a shish kebab out of his organs with it. Maybe that was the guy who told you, that's what matters.'

  Riley shook his head. 'Get real, Detective. Whoever did it is going to keep his mouth shut, isn't he?'

  Skinner glared at him for a moment or two, resisting the urge to slap him hard around the head again just for the fun of it. 'Let's get back to the point, shall we?'

  'Which is?'

  'Which is: you were a friend of Kevin Norrell.'

  'Says who?'

  Skinner looked around the cell. 'You see anyone else standing in this fucking room?'

  Riley shrugged again. 'I knew him a little.'

  'Come off it, Riley. You think we don't read files? You grew up on the same estate as him. You've been busted together more than once. You knew the man.'